


Hands in the Dirt, Head in the Sun

by PsychicPineapple



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Gardener Bilbo, M/M, posh twat Thorin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-07 18:55:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3179462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PsychicPineapple/pseuds/PsychicPineapple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twenty five years after being in school together, Bilbo and Thorin unexpectedly meet in a pub.</p><p>**</p><p>  <i>The fellow reached out a hand to him. ‘Bilbo Baggins. And no need to apologise. You were a year ahead of me, and we didn’t exactly run in the same circles.’ He smiled.</i></p><p> <i>‘More’s the pity,’ Thorin rumbled, firmly grasping Bilbo’s hand in his own.</i><br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first foray into Bagginshield. Hastily written, barely beta'd, shamelessly fluffy. I hope you enjoy it! Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated.

The pub was dimly lit, a situation not much improved by the grey skies outside. Thorin blinked as he entered, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. It was more or less like every other pub he’d been in across Britain; polished oak and brass taps, padded booths and scattered tables. It had only just gone evening, and there were hardly any people seated inside. A young couple sat chatting in a booth, a grizzled old man sat alone at a table, and a man sat at the bar. His back was to Thorin as he approached, but the man had a mess of mousy hair, and his feet were crossed at the ankles as he perched on the stool. And behind the bar, there was - 

 

‘Bofur?’

 

The bartender turned around, his face splitting into a wide, warm grin. ‘Thorin Durinson!’ He reached over to firmly grasp Thorin’s forearm below the elbow, and Thorin returned the gesture.  ‘Welcome back to the old stomping ground! How are you?’

 

‘Tired,’ Thorin admitted ruefully, ‘I’d forgotten how long the journey is.’

 

‘Well that’ll teach you to stay away for twenty-five years,’ Bofur smiled. ‘I’ve got a room sorted for you upstairs, but for now pull up a stool and we’ll get you settled. What can I get you?’

 

‘A Guinness. Please.’ Bofur acknowledged him with a nod, and set about pouring a pint. Thorin took the opportunity to study his old friend; the years didn’t seem to sit quite so heavily on him as they did Thorin. Dark of hair and eye, he had a neatly trimmed beard and a long moustache that Thorin could only describe as bloody impressive. His face was etched with lines, cheery crinkles around his eyes and deep dimples bracketing his ever smiling mouth. Thorin looked past him to the mirrored bar-back, and studied his own reflection, wondering how much change Bofur would see in him.

 

He bore his own lines, but they were mostly deep creases in his brow and bags beneath his eyes. His dark hair was greying about the temples and in few errant streaks at his hairline. His beard was short and tidy, his brows thick and dark. The time since school had changed him considerably, but he fancied he could still see himself beneath the leavings of the years; his blue eyes shone brightly, and he still felt strong and hale.

 

He was pulled from his reverie with the arrival of his pint, tipping it to Bofur before taking a long, satisfying pull. ‘You’re no less fond of the drink, I see,’ Bofur commented cheekily, and that was enough to set them off. Before they knew it they’d been reminiscing about their school days for a good three quarters of an hour. Eventually, as the evening deepened, more customers came trickling in and Bofur was obliged to divert his attention. Thorin was watching him serve, draining the dregs from his glass, when a voice piped up beside him.

 

‘Pardon my intrusion but – you’re Thorin Durinson.’ The speaker was sitting to Thorin’s left; the mousy-haired man he’d noticed as he entered. He had a pleasant sort of a face, Thorin thought. A square jaw but with no harsh edges, and a subtle cleft in his chin. His hair sat in a mess of loose curls down to his collar, and though it was too dim in the pub to tell their colour, his eyes were bright and friendly looking. Thorin turned to face him properly.

 

‘I am. But I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.’

 

‘I should say so,’ the man smiled, his cheeks dimpling. ‘It’s been a good, oh, twenty-five years since we were at school together. And I didn’t have quite your reputation.’ Thorin’s eyes roved across his face again, and the smallest spark of recognition flared at the back of his mind.

 

He grimaced, then smiled regretfully, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t -’

 

The fellow reached out a hand to him, ‘Bilbo Baggins. And no need to apologise. You were a year ahead of me, and we didn’t exactly run in the same circles.’ He smiled.

 

‘More’s the pity,’ Thorin rumbled, firmly grasping Bilbo’s hand in his own.

 

Bilbo huffed a silent laugh, his eyes twinkling as they flicked across Thorin’s face. ‘Indeed.’ He cleared his throat, dipping his head as he pulled his hand from Thorin’s. ‘So, what brings you back to town?’

 

‘We’re having something of a reunion,’ Thorin explained, ‘the lads from school.’

 

‘Getting the old band back together?’

 

‘Something like that,’ Thorin nodded with a smile. ‘I’ve just arrived. There are a few more coming in the next day or two, and some,’ he spoke a little louder as Bofur neared and gave him a significant look, ‘never left.’

 

Bilbo’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Who, Bofur?’ He turned to the bartender. ‘You two were friends in school? I’d never have guessed.’

 

‘Oh, aye,’ Bofur chuckled as he polished a glass. ‘Thick as thieves. There was whole gang of us. I was a year ahead, mind you, so I wasn’t around for their last year. My brother Bombur – you’ve heard me chat about Bombur – they were in the same class.’

 

‘Mister Baggins was just telling me he was a year below,’ Thorin remarked to Bofur.

 

‘Aye, I remember.’ He cut a sly look at Thorin, ‘bit surprised you don’t. I always – ‘ he was cut off by an order from down the bar. ‘Two ticks,’ he muttered, moving away.

 

Thorin turned back to Bilbo. ‘Where were we?’

 

‘Oh, um,’ Bilbo squinted slightly, tilting his head. ‘You were just about to tell me everything you’ve been up to since you left, I believe.’

 

Thorin raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that so?’

 

‘Yes,’ Bilbo nodded, a sly smile on his lips, ‘yes I’m sure that was it.’

 

‘Very well, then. But twenty-five years worth of catch-up may be thirsty work.’ He gestured to Bofur, who was pouring a pint down the bar. ‘Another stout, if you would. And whatever Mister Baggins is having.’

 

‘It’s Bilbo,’ his companion piped up, ‘and thank you. You really needn’t have.’ He’d perfected the art of putting up a proper English protest, Thorin noted, but his eyes were shining, his cheeks were ruddy, and his smile seemed to say that the evening was going in a direction of which he very much approved.

 

Thorin’s lips curled into a satisfied, slightly predatory smile. ‘No trouble at all.’

 

*

 

‘A solicitor?’ Bilbo was saying, a pint and half later. ‘That’s impressive, I must say. Are you still practicing in London?’

 

Thorin shook his head, his dark hair falling into his eyes. ‘Not for a few years, now. I worked until I had enough to buy back our family home in the North, and a little to live on besides. Then I settled up there.’

 

‘Doesn’t it get lonely?’ Bilbo asked, his voice soft. ‘I don’t imagine the Durinson family home is a two-bed-two-bath off the high street.’

 

‘Not quite,’ Thorin smiled, picturing the stately home of his forefathers sitting like a jewel amidst its sprawling grounds. ‘But I don’t live alone. My sister and her sons,’ he clarified quickly when Bilbo pulled back, putting some unwelcome distance between them. ‘My brother in law passed a few years back, and so they came to live with me.’

 

‘That’s kind of you,’ Bilbo shifted closer again, under the guise of re-settling himself on his stool.

 

Thorin shrugged and stated simply, ‘they’re family. I wouldn’t see them anywhere else.’

 

‘Well, it’s kind all the same,’ Bilbo said quietly, and Thorin almost started when he felt warm, soft fingers brush his own. He looked down at Bilbo’s hand and securely slid his own over it, feeling bold for doing so. He’d thought he was too old to feel that flutter in his chest, that heat in his stomach at a simple touch. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d found himself chatting someone up at a pub, or the last time he’d cared to. It must be this place, he thought distantly as his thumb found the smooth inside of Bilbo’s wrist. Being back where he spent his youth. He almost felt as though he were fifteen again, sneaking fumbling kisses behind the bike shed.  

 

As if reading his thoughts, Bilbo smiled warmly. ‘Thorin Durinson. If someone had told me when I was in school that one day I’d be sharing a drink and, well,’ he sent Thorin a heated look, ‘with Thorin Durinson, I’d have called them batty.’

 

Thorin smiled, shuffling forward until their knees touched. He lifted one hand and set it on Bilbo’s shoulder, his thumb brushing aside errant curls to find the soft curve of his neck. He leaned in to speak softly into Bilbo’s ear, ‘is this the part where you tell me you used to fancy me?’ He meant it as a joke, a gentle flirtation, and wasn’t quite expecting the loud bark of laugh that erupted from Bilbo.

 

‘Ha!’ He crowed, amused. ‘Hardly.’

 

Thorin pulled away with a frown. ‘I didn’t know the notion would be so absurd,’ he said, surly. He knew it was silly for such a small thing to injure his pride, but whatever oddness in the air had made him feel like a randy teenager had apparently brought his teenage insecurities along for the ride.

 

‘No, Thorin,’ Bilbo huffed bemusedly, ‘I don’t mean – it’s only,’ he paused, his face twitching as he struggled to find the words. ‘You were,’ he began slowly, ‘the bane of my school life for a little while, that’s all.’

 

‘That’s _all_?’ Thorin echoed, raising his eyebrows. He pulled back further, his hand sliding away from Bilbo’s.

 

‘Thorin,’ Bilbo’s face was all disbelief. ‘You can’t seriously be upset about this – it was secondary school! It was _twenty-five_ years ago for heaven’s sake!’

 

Thorin continued as though he hadn’t spoken. ‘And what exactly did I do at the age of sixteen to give such offence?’ This got another laugh, loud and sharp.

 

‘You’re kidding? Thorin, you – you were unbearable! You swanned about the place like you owned it, for starters. You treated me like dirt – though you treated all the lower years like dirt, so I didn’t take it personally. You were always the teachers’ favourite!’ He seemed to be gaining steam, and Thorin found himself genuinely put out. Bilbo snapped his fingers, ‘that bloody fencing club! They were constantly diverting money from the gardening club so you lot could attend some tournament or another. And whenever I complained all they said was “ _the Durinson name holds some heft, my boy”_ as if we were ever bloody allowed to forget it.’

 

‘Well at least the fencing club actually _won_ things!’ Thorin barked petulantly.

 

Bilbo puffed up, affronted, his lovely pink blush turning an angry red, ‘my roses won ribbons three years running, thank you very bloody much! And it would have been a fourth if we’d had any money left! By the time you graduated, the gardening club was just me, Freddy Bolger and Hugo Boffin pottering about in a four-by-four patch of dirt!’ Bilbo seemed to realise quite suddenly that he was yelling rather loudly. He took a long, slow breath, squaring his shoulders. ‘Look I’m – I’m over it. Truly –‘

 

‘Clearly,’ Thorin bit out, and Bilbo rolled his eyes.

 

‘You were just…you were a bit of a prat, that’s all.’

 

Thorin straightened up, looking at Bilbo down the sharp edge of his nose. ‘Well at least I was _something_ ,’ his voice was low and full of scorn. ‘Let’s remember who recognised whom sitting at this bar. Who got out of this town and made something of themselves, and who stayed here - still pottering about in the same patch of dirt.’ He almost immediately regretted it, but the callous vitriol had rolled so easily off his tongue – too easily.

 

Bilbo had gone quiet, his eyes flinty as he looked up into Thorin’s stormy face. ‘Well,’ he said at length, ‘I suppose things haven’t changed that much since school after all.’ He slid off the stool, slapped a tenner down on the bar, and walked away without another word. Thorin stared after him until he was out of sight.

 

Thorin’s ire seemed to leave the room with Bilbo. He deflated, slumping in his seat and hanging his head until his curtains of dark hair hid his face. A shadow fell over him, and he looked up at Bofur’s bemused face. ‘You had him right here,’ Bofur used the finger of his right hand to point to the palm of his left. ‘Eating out of your hand. Thorin, he was practically _purring_. How on god’s green earth did you manage to cock up such a sure thing?’

 

Thorin opened his mouth to give an explanation, and found he didn’t have one. He was suddenly very, very angry again – at himself. Of all the ridiculous, immature things to get bent out of shape over! He sighed, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. ‘If it’s quite all right with you, I think I’ll head upstairs.’

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Bilbo was not angry. He wasn’t. It would be stupid to be angry about something so silly as his secondary school gardening club. It would be stupid to dwell on a public screaming match with a bloke who was essentially a stranger. So, no, he wasn’t angry. But he was  _frustrated_. It wasn’t a large town, and he had lived in it all his life. Opportunities for courting – or a quick shag – were few and far between, especially for a gay man on the wrong side of forty. And Bilbo had been  _raring_ to go. Not at first, of course. At first it was just noticing a good looking bloke sitting next to him at the bar. Then when he placed that distinctive and familiar profile, well – no harm in starting a conversation, emboldened as he was by a drink or two. And when he felt Thorin’s push to his pull, all heated glances and flirty smiles and that  _voice_ –

 

‘Gah!’ Bilbo exclaimed, irritated, as he thumped his head back into his pillow. It had been three days since their unexpected reunion, plenty of time to banish the thought, and yet…and yet every time Bilbo let his hand slip down to his cock and his mind slip into fantasy he heard that bloody  _voice_. Deep and sure, Bilbo could almost feel the heat of Thorin’s breath across his ear, the rumble echoing through his chest as –

 

‘Fuck, shit, bugger it all.’ Bilbo spat, throwing back the covers and stomping into his ensuite, stripping off his pyjamas as he went.  _If you can’t wank without thinking of Thorin_ , he thought bitterly as he twisted the cold-water knob in the shower,  _then you won’t wank at all._

And so slightly cranky and still  _very_ frustrated, he left for work.

 

*

 

The nursery had originally belonged to Bilbo’s father, Bungo Baggins. He had started the company when he was barely out of his teens, and it had flourished in the small town. People in this part of the country took pride in their gardens, and the Baggins’ had been helping them do so for as long back as many could remember. As soon as Bilbo was old enough to walk he had been tottering about the nursery – under careful supervision, of course – and had grown to love and appreciate all manner of green and growing things.  And when his father’s hands became too gnarled and stiff to hold a trowel, his back too bent to wheel a barrow, Bilbo gladly took over care of the business. And when his father passed away, it was with a heavy heart that he became its official owner.

 

Drogo, a distant relation of Bilbo’s, and his now-wife Primula had been working there for a good many years, both of them starting as after-school help. It was there that they met, and there that they fell in love. And when they married, Drogo had one of Bilbo’s roses tucked in his buttonhole, and Prim had a stunning bouquet.

 

‘All right, Bilbo!’ Drogo called out with a wave as Bilbo let himself into the greenhouse.

 

‘Yes, hello, Drogo.’ Bilbo turned to walk between two long rows of blooming petunias and was nearly knocked off his feet by Primula barrelling past. She had pots stacked so high in her arms she could scarcely see over them.

 

‘Sorry, Bilbo!’ She yelled over her shoulder.

 

‘What’s the commotion?’ Bilbo asked, frowning as he navigated his way through the living labyrinth of greenery to reach Drogo.

 

‘We’ve had a right big order,’ Drogo handed a clipboard to Bilbo. ‘Flowers, hedges, stones. All headed up to the school.’

 

‘The school?’ Bilbo frowned, flipping through the order forms. ‘ _Our_ school?’

 

‘The one and only,’ Drogo nodded, hefting a bag of white pebbles over his shoulder. ‘And Freddy Bolger’s after telling me he’s headed up there today to put in a fountain, of all things!’ Bilbo tutted appropriately at the extravagance until Drogo seemed pacified. ‘Prim and I have the truck almost full for the first run, but it’ll take one or two more ‘til we’re done.’

 

‘Right,’ Bilbo murmured, his brain finally catching up, ‘right!’ I’ll stay here and get the rest of this sorted, you head up to the school. Take Prim with you to help with the unloading.’

 

‘Rightio,’ Drogo agreed amicably, steadying his bag of pebbles and taking off with long strides. Bilbo turned back to the forms and huffed. He had a long day ahead of him.

 

*

 

Bilbo was exhausted. He, Drogo, and Prim had been run off their feet all day preparing, delivering, and off-loading the orders for the school, and dealing with regular customers besides. He toed off his boots as he stepped in his front door, and reached down to peel off his socks. He left the lot in the pile by the entryway, savouring the feel of his bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. Stumbling over to the sofa, he didn’t so much lay down as collapse into its heavenly softness. He was just drifting off into a doze when his phone began to ring.

 

‘Blasted thing,’ he grouched, digging it out of his pocket. ‘’lo?’ His voice was slightly garbled on account of his face being mashed into the sofa cushion.

 

‘Bilbo?’

 

That bloody  _voice_. Bilbo was up like a shot, eyes wild as he looked down at his phone. The number wasn’t familiar. He raised it back to his ear, ‘Thorin?’

 

‘Yes. I’m sorry to disturb you -’

 

‘How on earth did you get this number?’

 

‘Bofur,’ he said simply and, Bilbo thought, a trifle impatiently. ‘Listen, I wanted to, er, apologise. I was hoping you’d meet me tomorrow morning, up at the school.’

 

‘The school?  _Our_  school?’ Bilbo found himself echoing for the second time that day. Even away from work he couldn’t get clear of the bloody place. ‘Why?’

 

‘Will you meet me?’ Thorin asked again, ignoring Bilbo’s question. He almost got cross again, but then found he was too tired to care.

 

‘Yes, I suppose. Nine o’clock all right?’

 

‘Yes, that’s fine.’ Bilbo thought Thorin sounded relieved. ‘All right. Well. Good night, Bilbo.’ And Bilbo couldn’t help the tiny shudder that ran down his neck as Thorin said his name.

 

‘Good night, Thorin.’ Bilbo sat there for a long moment when the call was ended, fighting a losing battle with his imagination. Finally he sighed, pushing himself off the couch and resigning himself to yet another icy shower.

 

*

 

The morning mist was just beginning to burn away as Bilbo’s little car climbed the long gravel drive towards the school. By the time he reached the outbuildings the sun was shining clearly, and he squinted against it. It was a Saturday, and the school was seemingly deserted but for Bilbo’s dusty green three-door and a rather sporty looking sedan. He stepped out of the car, pulling out his phone to call Thorin when a voice came to him on the breeze. ‘Bilbo!’

 

And there was Thorin, striding towards him, one hand up to shield against the sun. ‘I’m glad you came,’ he smiled warmly as he drew level to Bilbo, who didn’t quite know what to do with Thorin’s cheery demeanour.

 

‘Yes, well,’ he shuffled awkwardly, ‘I said I would. I do have to be at work soon, though, so -’

 

‘Yes, of course.’ Thorin nodded, and then turned and walked away. ‘This way.’

 

‘I really don’t,’ Bilbo murmured, then louder as he scurried to keep up with Thorin’s long stride, ‘ I really don’t have time for this!’

 

‘It’ll only take a moment,’ Thorin called over his shoulder as he rounded the administration building.

 

‘I don’t understand,’ Bilbo huffed, ‘why is it, exactly that we’re -’ he paused as he turned the corner, stumbling over thin air, ‘here.’

 

Bilbo hadn’t had much occasion to visit the school since his graduation. But he had been up every so often for work, delivering rolls of turf or hedges, and had seen enough to satisfy him that, by and large, the school hadn’t changed much in his absence. And so he could say now with relative certainty that what saw when he turned that corner was very new.

 

It was a garden. A very nice garden. Nestled between the administration building and the first block of classrooms, it was neither sprawling nor meagre. The borders were defined with box hedges, neatly trimmed, and rope dividers, quite short enough to be stepped over easily, separated distinct sections. As Bilbo walked closer he could see flowerbeds, but also vegetable patches, neatly furrowed. There was a row of citrus saplings running along the back boundary, and narrow lanes of white pebbles provided easy access to the entire garden. At its centre there was a small fountain made of ashy grey stone, bubbling gently. And beside the fountain, there was Thorin. He was watching Bilbo, his hands thrust deep into his pockets.

 

‘What,’ Bilbo’s mouth moved soundlessly for a moment or two, ‘what is this? When? When did this?’

 

‘Take a look,’ Thorin instructed, nodding towards the fountain. Bilbo approached slowly, gravel and pebbles crunching below his feet. At the foot of the fountain there was a small bronze plaque, nestled between two beds of rosebushes. He leant down.

 

‘ _In honour of Bilbo Baggins_ ,’ he read aloud, ‘ _for use of the gardening club._ ’ He straightened up quickly, pointing at the plaque. ‘That’s my name. Those,’ his hand swung to point at the bushes, ‘those are my roses!’

 

‘Yes,’ Thorin nodded, ‘they came very highly recommended. I hear they’ve won ribbons.’ He was smiling down at Bilbo,  _smiling_ , and making jokes, and Bilbo could feel that he was very close to being overwhelmed.

 

Taking a deep breath and a big step backwards, Bilbo spoke. ‘Thorin, what on earth is going on?’

 

Thorin’s smile faded a little, ‘I’m apologising. Was that unclear?’

 

‘Just a touch,’ Bilbo fretted, scrubbing a hand across his mouth. ‘I’m sorry, I just – we met in a pub,’ he spoke as if to himself, ‘and then I thought we were going to shag, but then we had row, and now there’s a garden. Yeah,’ he said after a long silence, ‘yeah, I’ve no idea what’s going on.’

 

‘Bilbo,’ Thorin said gently, stepping forward. ‘I have something to confess. I did remember you. From school. Not at first,’ he rushed to say, when Bilbo began to look cross, ‘but when you said your name I started to remember, and after that it all came back rather quickly. And, if I’m being honest, I think the reason I got so put out when you said you didn’t fancy me was because. Well. I did.’

 

Bilbo blinked up at him and snorted. ‘You fancied you? Not much of a surprise there.’

 

Thorin groaned, ‘I fancied  _you,_ Bilbo.’

 

‘But,’ Bilbo stammered, caught off guard, ‘you didn’t even know me!’

 

‘No,’ Thorin agreed guiltily, ‘but I’d noticed you. And I’d become rather taken with you. I vaguely remember wanting you to join the fencing club,’ he murmured, his eyes narrowing as though he were looking into the past.

 

‘You never even spoke to me unless you were dressing me down!’ Bilbo’s voice was strangled. He hadn’t quite decided if he was pleased, or upset, or hallucinating.

 

‘I was a teenager, and one severely lacking in social graces,’ Thorin admitted, grudgingly. ‘Look, here it is – it’s been pointed out to me by, well, various people, that I  _was_ something of a -’

 

‘Posh prat,’ Bilbo suggested when Thorin paused.

 

Thorin sighed, but he was smiling, and Bilbo found that he was smiling back. ‘For want of a better term,’

 

‘There is no better term,’ Bilbo interjected, ‘ _prat_ pretty much hits the nail on the head.’

 

‘In any case,’ Thorin continued, loudly, ‘I treated you poorly when we were in school, and then the other day I let you bruise my – clearly very fragile – pride, and I let my anger get away on me. I’m sorry.’

 

He truly did look contrite, Bilbo thought. And having decided to forgive him, he could acknowledge that he also looked bloody good. He was in jeans and white button down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His forearms were more muscular than Bilbo had imagined – allowed himself to imagine – though the thatch of dark hair was no surprise. He drew his gaze back up to Thorin’s face, his hair was unbound and backlit by the morning sun like a hazy halo.

 

‘I accept your apology,’ Bilbo declared, ‘and offer my own. It takes two to get in a slightly tipsy, very public row over events from a quarter of century ago.’ He quirked a hesitant smile at Thorin, who returned it tenfold, and Bilbo suddenly felt quite dazed. He shook his head to clear away the feeling. He still needed to know. ‘But, Thorin, why all this?’ He stretched out his arms, gesturing at the garden around them. ‘I appreciate a good apology as much as anyone – and a good garden more than most – but this is,’ he exhaled heavily, words failing him.

 

‘Well it is for you, to apologise,’ Thorin admitted, ‘but only in part.’ He lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck, avoiding Bilbo’s eye. ‘I hadn’t remembered this until Bofur brought it up, but apparently my, er, master plan to get you to join the fencing club was to try and take down the gardening club.’ He had the good grace to sound sheepish as he confessed. ‘I owe the school something of a debt, when it comes to gardening.’

 

‘Well,’ Bilbo declared, looking around them, ‘I should consider it paid in full.’

 

‘I’m glad you approve,’ Thorin smirked, daring to step a little closer. ‘So, as we have both apologised – and accepted – do you think we could, perhaps, start over?’

 

Bilbo took a small step in to meet him, until they were very nearly, but not quite, touching. He tilted his head, considering. ‘Start over? Nah. Our beginning was a bit rubbish. I think,’ he reached out for Thorin’s hand, grasping it gently before running his palm up the length of his arm and cupping his shoulder, ‘that we should skip ahead.’

 

‘Hmmm,’ Thorin hummed agreeably as he settled one hand on Bilbo’s waist. ‘To when we met in the pub?’

 

‘Bit further than that,’ Bilbo teased, ‘right before the row, there was that moment-’

 

‘Ah, yes,’ Thorin breathed, ‘I believe I was here.’ He leant down, his breath ghosting over the shell of Bilbo’s ear.

 

‘Y-yes,’ Bilbo stammered, his breathing uneven. He fisted his hands in Thorin’s shirt. ‘Let’s go from there.’

 

Without another word, Thorin turned into Bilbo and kissed him, softly and reverently beneath the mid-morning sun. When they pulled apart, Thorin’s eyes were dark and his cheeks flushed above his beard. Bilbo was positively rosy, and he couldn’t help but let out a chuckle. ‘What’s so funny?’ Thorin asked fondly, stroking his fingers through Bilbo’s hair.

 

‘Nothing,’ Bilbo smiled shyly. ‘Life. I’m kissing Thorin Durinson in the school gardens.’

 

‘And I am kissing Bilbo Baggins, at long last.’ Thorin’s grin became impossibly wider, and Bilbo stretched up to kiss it sweetly.

 

‘Come on,’ he said, ducking away with a laugh and throwing Thorin a cheeky smile, ‘lets go have a snog behind the bike shed.’

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I hope you liked it! I'm considering writing the second chapter from Thorin's perspective as well, and maybe a bit more besides. Comments and kudos are both welcome and appreciated. You can find me on tumblr at scottmotherfuckinmccall.tumblr.com


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